


A Certain Breed

by foolondahill17



Category: The Sandbaggers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 20:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5641402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolondahill17/pseuds/foolondahill17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Willie recruits Mike from the field school. Spoilers for the first season.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Certain Breed

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a season of espionage starting with Bridge of Spies and a brief flight of fancy with Spectre. Since then I've inundated myself with John le Carre's extensive works and, in fact, willed myself to get through his entire library before school begins again for spring semester. I have about fifteen left and two more weeks of break. Oh yes, I've also began my first ever re-watch of The Sandbaggers. Ergo, British intelligence has been heavily on my writing mind lately and, as I haven't had the inspiration for a convincing operation tale but couldn't get the characters out of my head, I've decided to fill in a bit of empty space between seasons one and two. So, excusing the lack of any real substance, I hope you enjoy this.

It was early March, icy cold, overcast, and thoroughly miserable. A frigid wind sliced across the naked countryside, rattled through skeletal tree branches, and seeped through Willie's coat as soon as he stepped out of the Service issued car. The soles of his shoes crunched on the gravel drive of the field school.

Willie looked dolefully up at the sky, decided it was going to rain, and bemoaned his lack of foresight to bring along an umbrella. He fixed a grin on his face for the sake of the figure approaching from the school, wearing a dark coat with the collar upturned and his chin dipped toward his chest to protect his face from the cold. Both hands were buried up to the wrists in his pockets, sleeves bunching at the elbows.

"David," said Willie, taking a step toward the man and stretching out his hand.

"Willie." David Follett returned Willie's smile and tugged a hand out of his pocket to meet Willie's. "How was your drive?"

"Fine, thanks," said Willie. The two of them turned to stroll toward the school. It was just as Willie remembered it and, as whenever he had cause to stop by, was flooded with his own past memories of the place, fresh out of the RAF, scoring well on interrogation resistance and poorly on investigative techniques.

The field school was situated on the hilly outskirts of Ashford, Kent, about an hour from London. It could be quite lovely in spring and summer but in the winter looked like a graveyard. Ice and dirty snow hid in shadowy places where the sun, when its sickly light managed to escape the heavy cloud-cover, couldn't get to it: nestled against the walls of the school and beneath the brittle and gray hedgerows.

"I appreciate the call," said Willlie.

"Not at all," David answered. "I suppose you're still in the market for a third Sandbagger?"

"Boss is getting a bit nervy," Willie answered. "Higher-ups are making noises about a temporary manning standard – to cut costs. Burnside wants to get another man before anything can be put on paper. Never mind Tom and I have been busting our backsides for the past eight months."

"You pulled Tom out of Singapore Station, didn't you?" said David. "How's he working out?"

"Quite well," said Willie. Headless and brown flower stalks drooped in pots by the door. The wind pushed against Willie's back, tossing his hair into his eyes. "Singapore's one of the friendlier stations. Didn't even kick up a fuss about the Special Section filching their personnel."

"I remember when Tom was at the school," said David, lips pressed together below his well-trimmed mustache.

"You remember everyone at the school," said Willie with a smile. He wondered if David remembered Burnside at the school: top of his classes in everything not excepting duplicity and manipulation, loner probably, keeping everyone else at an arm's length to measure them at a distance for their weaknesses and pressure points or, if the case called for it, a coffin.

"Anyway," said Willie. "What about this new man? Didn't mention anything about him when I called two months ago."

"He didn't seem quite ready then," David replied. They shuffled to a stop in front of the school, a rough stone building, pseudo Elizabethan with its arched windows and doors, and turned to face the gravel drive and Willie's car parked on the intersecting road. "But I think he'd do you nicely now. Just the kind of man Burnside looks for in the Special Section. Reserved but pleasant. Takes orders well but shows enough initiative to impress. We both know how much Neil dislikes blind loyalty."

"Depends to whom the loyalty is directed," said Willie. "Has he any specialties?"

"Speaks French. Done courses in code and field work, including a few specialty courses, dab hand at sniping, a touch of intrepid training."

Willie nodded and pursed his lips. David continued, "Name's Michael Wallace. Twenty-six."

"No military background then?"

"No. Did a bit of courier work for the Foreign Office in the Eastern bloc, Warsaw and Prague, before applying here."

"Hasn't got a girlfriend, has he?" Willie asked. Burnside, always wary of hiring straight out of the nursery, was of late especially so of young men apt to drop the service at any moment in favor of getting married.

"None declared," said David.

"And what does he think about working for the Special Section?"

"Tell you the truth, I haven't mentioned it to him yet. Figured I'd let you be the one to break the news. Sandbagging has been a bit taboo recently," David warned. "Even more so than usual, I mean. What with Denson and Dickens in such quick procession."

"That get spread up here, too?" said Willie.

"Word does get 'round, you know," said David, shrugging. Willie smiled wryly, wondering how much – if any – of the true story had indeed leaked, or if they only knew Laura, like Alan before her, had died while in service to her Queen and Country, never mind Neil Burnside.

"I've got him waiting for you," said David. "Care to be introduced?" He nudged his head toward the door and Willie raised his eyebrows in consent. "Just a minute." David stepped toward the door and pushed it inward, popping his head into the foyer. "Mike," he called.

"Sir?"

David held the door open for the young Mike Wallace, wearing a coat already, buttoned to his chin. Willie resigned himself to the fact that the entire interview was apparently going to take place in the chilly out-of-doors and tried to remind himself that intelligence officers felt more at ease in the open, beyond the reach of hidden microphones or cameras.

"Willie Caine," said David, shepherding introductions with a wave of his hand. "Mike Wallace."

"Mr. Caine," said Mike civilly, reaching out a hand for Willie's. He wore a pair of black gloves, which gave his hands a sleek and capable look.

"Mike," said Willie, shaking hands. Mike was half a head shorter than Willie, had appraising hazel eyes, matted light-brown hair cropped short, and the face of a boy.

"Well then," said David, "I'll leave you to talk business. Call if you need anything." He disappeared through the dark doorway and into the warmth of the building.

"Take me on a tour of the grounds, Mike?" said Willie with a smile to put the kid at ease.

Mike smiled politely in response. "Of course, sir." Certainly reserved – a bit posh, too. He held his gloved hands behind his back as he walked, left hand curled into a fist and right hand grasping his left wrist. They set off at a stroll across the lawn. The dry, frost-covered grass crackled underfoot.

"Blasted weather, eh?" said Willie.

Mike's breath materialized in little puffs of white smoke in front of his lips. "Yes, sir."

"Mr. Follett say anything about why I was coming?" said Willie.

"Nothing specific, no, sir. He said you were in the Operations Directorate stationed in London."

"Guilty as charged," said Willie. "I'm Head of Special Section. Ever heard of it?"

"Of course, sir," said Mike, staring ahead at a group of pine trees that bent low over a thin dirt path splintered with stripes of black ice. "Responsible for the jobs Stations can't be charged with, predominantly politically sensitive ones."

"Heard a lot about us, have you?"

"I've heard stories, sir. Everyone has."

"And very few of them true, I'll tell you straight off," said Willie with another attempt of humor that Mike returned equally as cordially. Willie looked down the path and remembered quite suddenly that it was in this exact spot he'd first laid eyes on Laura. Poor Laura. Had Willie known how it would turn out for her in the end he would have told David to stuff it without another thought and got back into his car.

He wondered if he should do the same now, leave young Mike hanging, and make a dash for his car and London, tell Burnside it wouldn't have worked. He figured he was just twitched and led Mike away from the spot, circling the large school.

"The job doesn't involve nearly as much dashing about the world with blazing guns as you'd expect. Most of it is spent sorting station signals in the hutch. Neil Burnside – Director of Operations – likes to say there's nothing special about us except the name."

"One of the hardest sections to get into, I've heard," said Mike.

"Yes, well the boss isn't one for undue compliments," Willie answered. "Truth is the Special Section is a damn sight harder to staff then all the other sections because Burnside's damn picky – for good reason, granted – but he wants only the best. We're faced with plenty of international incidents; we can't let our neighbors think we aren't giving them anything but our most worthy attentions."

Mike listened politely as Willie talked. It began to drizzle slightly, an icy mist that left a feather-light dusting of water on Willie's coat and face. Bloody hell his cheeks felt like they were going numb. Mike's face was slapped pink from the wind but if he was uncomfortable than he didn't show it. The boy looked unflappable.

"So how'd you get into the game, Mike?"

"Sir?" said Mike but Willie had an unfounded suspicion Mike knew exactly what Willie meant. It was not Willie giving Mike the interview but vice versa; he had clearly already realized what Willie's purpose at the school was but was refraining from giving his own thoughts until he had it all laid in front of him. Well, at least he wasn't overly eager. Certainly nothing like Colin had been. It was a good sign. Burnside wasn't fond of volunteers.

"How'd a bright kid like you ever get mixed up in a fool's game like intelligence?" Willie clarified. The wind picked at their voices and tossed them to the countryside where they dissolved into the mist hanging in the air.

Mike smiled. "Old professor from school recommended me, sir. Got me into a secretarial position with the Foreign Office which turned me on to SIS."

Willie tugged a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, pinched one and offered the pack to Mike. Mike shook his head. "Thank you, no." Willie hoped he didn't have another bloody puritan on his hands. He tucked the cigarettes back into his jacket and pulled out a lighter. The flame wouldn't catch because of the wind, so he tried again, cupping his hand around the light, bringing it up to the cigarette clenched in his teeth and succeeded in catching the end.

"What school?"

"Birmingham." Mike stood beside him, straight-backed and rather stiff. Willie noticed Mike was clenching and unclenching his fingers behind his back and for the first time wondered if the kid was nervous, and thought that might explain some of Mike's reserve.

"What for?"

"Political Science and International Studies."

"No aspirations of becoming a bureaucrat, I hope," said Willie.

Mike's smile was more genuine this time. "No, sir."

"That's a relief. As a rule, Burnside hates anything to do with bloody bureaucrats. Not too fond of them myself."

Willie looked at Mike, waiting to see how the boy would respond. He was certainly too smart to protest but Willie wondered whether or not he would openly agree. Mike settled on a neutral, "Yes, sir" and Willie changed the subjects, satisfied at least he didn't seem the ingratiating type.

"I didn't go to university, myself," said Willie. "Stepped right into SIS after leaving the RAF. They needed someone to jump out of a plane."

"Do that often in the Special Section, sir?"

"Not more than once or twice, thankfully," Willie answered. "It loses its thrill as I get older and realize I've got better things to do with what little time I've got left."

Willie pulled off the path and came to a stop so he and Mike stood abreast, staring at the countryside that sprawled from the back of the school. It was covered with yellowed grass, peat, and a cobweb of mist descended into the dips and pockets of the surrounding hills. Willie flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette.

"So where is it you hope to head, Mike?" said Willie. "Foreign station? Coding? Missions?"

"Wherever they'd like to send me, sir," Mike answered. "I've been trained for fieldwork, so I assume I'll be stationed somewhere it can be put to use."

Willie nodded. There was such a thing as being too neutral and Willie set about trying to slip around Mike's carefully ironed exterior, hoping to find a hint of the initiative David had mentioned.

"Quite the marksman, I've heard."

Mike shrugged modestly but Willie could tell he was trying not to smile. "I'm fair, sir."

"You rarely have cause to use guns on the section. The higher-ups frown upon arming us. Seem to think it might give us ideas."

"Seems a pity," said Mike and it took Willie a moment to realize the boy had actually warmed up enough – hypothetically, at least, as the weather still stubbornly refused to let either of them yield to any literal sense of the term – to make a joke, "seeing as the other side haven't got any rules about carrying guns."

"Well," said Willie. "Like I said, not much opportunity for shootouts."

"So they say, sir," said Mike guardedly, and Willie knew they were treading dangerously near the territory David had warned him of: Alan's and Laura's deaths and the unfortunate wildfire power of fascinating, if tragic, intelligence gossip. For all their enigmas, spies certainly were a sorry lot for keeping secrets.

Willie's nose was running from the cold. He sniffed and rubbed his sleeve across his face before tucking his hand back in the pocket of his coat. Willie wondered how Tom was getting on, off on his own bit of courier work in Bulgaria. He wondered if it was any warmer in Sofia and concluded bitterly that it probably was.

Willie never thought he'd be envious of a Special Op, especially lately with him and Tom pulling double-duty every other week, not to mention the weeks in-between, but Tom was their man for the Southeastern theater and Burnside wouldn't have trusted him for recruitment, anyway. Wanted someone who knew all the traits to look for, Neil had said. Good Old Neil as Jeff would have called him.

"So what about life outside school, Mike?" said Willie, pulling back to the issue at hand. "Hobbies? Family?"

"I've got a sister. Katherine. Accountant with Haines Watts. Lives in London with her fiance."

"Parents?"

"Just me and Kathy. My father left when I was a kid. My mother died over ten years ago."

"Sorry."

"Thank you, sir."

 _What of?_ Willie almost asked but didn't want to seem tactless. Mike supplied him with an answer anyway:

"Throat cancer. Chain smoker."

Willie took a draw of his cigarette and exhaled slowly, smoke spilling out of his lips. Oh well, he was so accomplished at cheating death in the field that it seemed an unnecessary precaution to give up one of his few remaining vices. He wondered about Mike's father, why he'd left and where he was now, when they'd last had any contact. Something to check up on, at least. It wouldn't do to hire anyone with too many hang-ups; the job itself was predisposed to supply so many.

"You haven't declared any girlfriends," Willie continued.

"Haven't got any to declare." Willie wasn't surprised. The Special Section had a tendency to attract operatives with a singular disposition. Whether incidentally or by design Willie didn't know, but it was a general rule that the less personal connections in a job like theirs the better. He cocked an eyebrow. "Lack of interest or lack of time?"

Mike grinned. "Lake of time."

"Well, haven't got an overabundance of it in the Special Section, either. You'll have to make do with the little you've got."

"I'll keep it in mind, sir." Mike continued to grin, rather sheepishly, and Willie was struck again by how young he was. He reminded Willie of Bob, Alan, and Colin, all rolled into one - two our of the three killed on the job - and for a moment Willie agreed with Burnside's dislike of taking anyone so green.

Willie picked his cigarette stub out of his lips and dropped it, snuffing it out with the toe of his shoe.

"Like I was saying before, Mike," Willie started casually. He jumped from topic to topic quite deliberately, hoping to keep Mike on his toes, see how well he could keep up. Willie turned back onto the path and set off again, back toward the school. Mike fell into step beside him almost immediately. "The Special Section requires a certain breed of animal for success, let alone triumph. You've been recommended for the job."

"I'm flattered, sir," said Mike.

"It can be dangerous, Mike. I won't kid you." Willie continued grimly, "with an uneven pace, more paperwork than action, backaches, headaches, late nights, and everything in between."

"Of course, sir," said Mike.

"We lost three Sandbaggers last year," said Willie. "We've been trying to replace the last one for nearly nine months."

Mike nodded tautly. "Yes, sir."

"And I won't pretend Neil Burnside is an easy man to work for. He can be downright difficult, actually. He's got a short temper, manipulates people – just for the hell of it, it sometimes seems – and doesn't take well to suggestions, especially if those suggestions come from the sixth floor. He's career intelligence and knows what he's doing, and doesn't want any meddling from people who're tied to Whitehall's apron strings. Which unfortunately can't always be avoided. You'll find, Mike, that the Special Section's greatest foil isn't always the bloody Ruskies."

"Understood, sir."

"So what do you say?"

Mike cleared his throat. "Well, sir -" Willie looked over at Mike and saw he was untidily hiding a grin on his face. "I can't quite figure out if you're offering me a job or threatening to stand me in front of a firing squad."

Willie smiled in response to the unexpected levity. "Sometimes I can't tell the difference, myself."

Willie knew then that he liked him. Liked Mike and hoped he did enter the Section. Then again, Willie could find something to like in nearly anyone. He did, after all, count even Neil as one of his friends. But Mike seemed a genuinely likable chap; good humored, mannered, and tempered. He didn't doubt Tom would be fond of him, as well.

They had reached Willie's car again, did a complete circle around the school. It was just as cloudy and dreary as before, the mist beginning to solidify into something more akin to a flurry of wet snow. It would be Willie's usual luck to get stuck in a bloody sleet storm driving back to London. Willie turned to face Mike head on. The boy met his gaze unflinchingly, "It'll be up to the boss back home to offer you the job, but just say if he did – would you take it?"

Mike pressed his lips together, nodded his head as if testing his answer to himself to see if he approved of the sound, and then opened his mouth slowly, "I think I would, sir. If I'm offered it."

Willie nodded. "Glad to hear it, Mike."

Mike obviously assumed the interview was over as his face finally slackened to a more relaxed expression. "Thank you, sir," he said, with a note of farewell in his voice.

"Just one more thing, Mike," said Willie, pausing before opening the door to the car. "Unrelated to the job, really, but you don't happen to remember a girl here by the name of Laura Dickens, do you? Would have left a little over a year ago."

"Dickens," said Mike, frowning thoughtfully. "No, I don't think so. What did she look like?"

"Dark hair. Pretty. Kept to herself mostly, I can imagine."

Mike shrugged, "The name sounds familiar but I can't seem to place it to a face. Sorry, sir. Why do you mention her?"

Willie smiled, lips stiff. "Never mind, Mike. Just an old friend." It had been a final unbid favor to Burnside. Willie didn't think it would be fair to saddle the man with another Sandbagger who had known Laura.

Mike smiled back slightly uncertainly, looking again very young. Willie couldn't believe he, himself, had once been that young – even less imagine it of Burnside.

 _Ever seen someone die, Mike?_ But Willie didn't ask it. There wasn't any point in putting the wind back up now that Willie seemed to have finally got Mike to swallow the hook. "Alright then, Mike," said Willie instead, pulling his hands out of his pockets and stretching his shoulders, stiff from the cold. He was conscious that, among his other crimes – not the least of which included a bit of sugar coating – he'd also managed to rather hideously mix his metaphors. "If I were you I'd start packing my bags. Do a search for cheap flats in London. Salary isn't anything to brag about, either."

"Thank you, sir," said Mike again, offering his hand.

"Don't mention it," said Willie, and shook Mike's hand. "Report tomorrow to the Operations Director and if you come out of that one alive then I'll say it's a pleasure to have you aboard." Willie opened the car door and climbed back behind the wheel. "And no more of this _sir_ business. Call me Willie."

"Willie," Mike echoed, grinning. "I look forward to working with you."

"And I with you." Willie shut the door, turned on the ignition, and shoved the lever into drive, car rumbling back down the road. He flicked on the windshield wipers and glanced in his rearview mirror to see Mike hustling back toward the school's doors, evidently anxious to get out of the vindictive elements.

The wipers thumped rhythmically across the windshield, batting away soggy slush of bloody Britain's lingering winter. Willie thought of his mountain of paperwork waiting to welcome him back to the hutch and tried to feel relieved that the afternoon's visit was now at least one less thing Willie had to get done. He couldn't deny it would be a relief to have three Sandbaggers again; they'd been working under-staffed for far too long.


End file.
